


Six of the Best

by DashWestwood



Series: Doctor Who: The Lost Episodes [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 10:18:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DashWestwood/pseuds/DashWestwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor and Amy take to the time vortex after the events of "Victory of the Daleks", but detect a strange signal in 1981. Six foreign lifeforms, one powerful device, and a whole lot of trouble await. (The first story in a planned "mini-arc" trilogy set within Season 5 of Doctor Who.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Proof of Life

**CHAPTER 1: PROOF OF LIFE**

"Do you _always_ fly like this?"

Amid the violent rocking of the TARDIS, Amy Pond desperately scrambled for a stable anchor - something, anything, to grasp as her journey through time and space became increasingly erratic at the hands of the Doctor. Even with a handful of trips now under her belt, she often found the ordeal of flying - or travelling, or transwarping, or whatever he called it - to be more perilous than the exploits that would envelop them post-journey, harbouring equal parts jealousy and admiration that her once raggedy friend could find such explosive joy in his ship of hard knocks.

Well, normally he could. But not today.

There he was, pushing and pulling all manner of levers on the antique mish-mash that was its central console, but doing so without his usual gleeful gusto. If anything, he seemed distant, focused. Occupied by something else. His body moved with the ship out of simple reflex while his face told a clear tale of someone detached from the now and reflecting on the-

" _Oy! Doctor!_ "

Amy's demanding holler seemed to cut through, and the Doctor's gaze immediately flicked around to see the fiery redhead staring daggers right back at him.

"Right. Yes. Sorry," he fumbled. "Was off in my own little corner shop there."

"You're not still thinking about those dall-things, are you?"

"Daleks, Amy. They're called Daleks. And no, I wasn't. Well, I might have been." He sighed. "Okay, I was, but why weren't you? Why can't you remember them? It doesn't make sense!"

Amy rolled her eyes. "What doesn't make sense is how the heck you managed to get a licence to fly this thing. Are you trying to hit every space pot-hole out there?"

The Doctor blinked. "Space doesn't have pot-holes."

"Whatever! Bumpy! Amy no-likey!"

He looked around, as if noticing the violent movements of the ship for the first time, and turned his attention back to the console. "Oh, well, why didn't you say so! A quick twiddle here and..."

The Doctor effortlessly navigated the impossible array of switches and melodic violin music started to fill the TARDIS, its gentle tone playing at right angles against the savage jolts occurring within. Amy couldn't see this as any sort of result.

"And what?" she demanded.

"And what what?"

"It's still bumpy!"

"Well, yeah, that's the ride you pay for 'round here. But doesn't the music make it seem much more pleasant?"

Before Amy could return fire, the Doctor noticed a flashing circle on the console's monitor. "Oh. Oooh. Oh?" he pondered, moving himself over to the typewriter embedded nearby. Hammering away at its keys seemed to produce some sort of result, because "ah" started to filter in between every other "oh", until he came to a string of understanding. "Ah. Aha. Ahh."

And then: "Uh-oh."

Like lightning, the Doctor heaved downward on a nearby lever. The TARDIS immediately shuddered to a stone-cold halt, the noise and movement of the cabin replaced by sudden stillness and silence. Even the music had stopped. Amy stumbled forth, not expecting such a dramatic shift from all to nothing, and hastily gathered herself as she brushed her hair from her eyes. "Result!" she exclaimed.

The Doctor didn't respond. His eyes were still studying the monitor.

Amy wandered up to his side and matched his gaze. On the screen was a map of England layered over what looked like a random array of letters and numbers. To her human eyes it meant very little, but clearly, to her non-human friend, it meant something completely different.

"Doctor? What is it?"

"Energy," he said. "So much energy. And so advanced... wait, what? Five? No, six? This isn't right. Not for 2081." He paused, cocked his head. "Sorry, not 2081. By then you lot have disposable particle accelerators, and we all know how that one worked out."

The Doctor rotated a dial and the display's numbers shifted. "Ah, that's better! 1981. No, wait, that's not better. That's worse. Much worse." He bit his lip.

"Just tell me what's going on!" Amy exclaimed.

The Doctor pushed back from the console and started pacing the room. "The TARDIS has picked up a processing signature coming from Earth in 1981 - a very powerful signature from a very powerful device. Enough go-juice to solve every unsolved equation in the universe in the time it takes you to say there's nothing good on telly. It's highly capable, highly advanced, and it simply does not belong in this point in time on Earth. That's bad enough. But then there's the 'and'."

"The and?"

"And... there's also signs of non-human life in the signal's immediate vicinity," he said, taking a deep breath. "Six beings, all within slapping distance, and my guess is they're not there for a cup of tea and a chat. The ones that are normally phone ahead first."

"No chance they're there for holiday?" Amy asked, only half-teasing.

"The Shadow Proclamation likes to keep a close eye on starhoppers more advanced than their destination," said the Doctor. "Especially those who haul their own gear to a planet that's not ready for it. Introduced species that can ruin an ecosystem? Same thing, but with gizmos. Besides, even if they were there on holiday, they're travelling during peak season. Imagine the traffic!"

Amy allowed herself a giggle. "So if they didn't bring their boardshorts, what is it that they're doing?"

The Doctor grinned before wrenching forth the downward lever, bringing the time rotor to life and setting the TARDIS back into motion. "Six foreign lifeforms using a wotzit that just happens to be the most powerful wotzit this side of the Canis Major? That's trouble, Miss Pond. And we're about to sort it out!"


	2. Access All Areas

**CHAPTER 2: ACCESS ALL AREAS**

Soft, lush grass was gradually flattened beneath the materialising footprint of the TARDIS, its signature cyclic grind culminating in a tell-tale "we've landed!" thud. The ship's door immediately flung open and the Doctor peeked his head out to assess his surroundings.

"Nice day," he remarked.

And it was. Morning sunshine peeked through spotted clouds, revealing the grass underfoot to be part of a larger lawn, that lawn part of a larger courtyard, and that courtyard part of a larger complex. Red brick buildings, grey asphalt bearing fresh chalk hopscotch grids redrawn over fading ones, a sea of crisp uniforms moving in chase, huddles, cliques...

"And it's recess," the Doctor concluded.

He stepped out, with Amy following his lead. "We're in a school? Ugh." She wrinkled her nose. "Of all the places."

"What's wrong with school?" asked the Doctor, his jaw agape. "Wondrous, marvellous buildings. The world's knowledge right at your fingertips, ready to be poured into hundreds of hungry young minds. Plenty of networking opportunities, loads of new friends to make. The food, eh. But the knowledge, Amy!"

She remained unconvinced. "Don't forget the teasing, the tormenting, the forced isolation..."

The Doctor straightened his back. "Ah." he responded simply. "Not someone's happiest time."

Amy pointed to her hair. "You try being the only ginger."

"Oh, I wish!" he exclaimed. "Now come on, we've got a thingo to find and six troublemakers doing the thinging!"

He practically skipped forth, leaving Amy to hurriedly close the TARDIS door behind her and catch up to the bounding Doctor, buoyed by a new sense of purpose that betrayed his mood just moments prior. A yard of students in play moved about like joyous swarms, the two travellers casually strolling forth among them.

"You're sure the readings were coming from here?" asked Amy.

"Sure as sure. One signal, six lifeforms."

"I mean, it doesn't exactly look like a base of alien operations. It's a bleedin' school."

"Which means what we're dealing with is hiding in plain sight. No idea where, exactly. But the readings were definitely coming from somewhere in this location, and I don't think it's their pocket calculators."

Amy stopped. "What do you mean 'no idea where'? You've got hundreds of buttoney-pokey things in the TARDIS - can't you use it to pinpoint their whereabouts?"

"It's a TARDIS, Amy, not a metal detector. We get a ballpark area. The rest is up to us."

Amy sighed before she registered her tone. Petulant, impatient. This wasn't her. She tried to lift the mood, as well as her own. "Aliens, though," she offered. "Shouldn't be too hard to spot. You know, keep an eye out for an ugly green blob with four heads?"

"Don't speak about the Athriel that way!" cried the Doctor, catching on to her desired change of tone. "They're a lovely, blobby species. But no, not here. Perception filters, is my guess. The six we're after will most likely appear as ordinary humans. Students, teachers, lunch ladies. Could be anyone. And a good place to start is by walking right through the front door."

With barely enough time to process this so-called plan, Amy was yanked by the hand as the energetic Doctor dragged her to what looked to be the school's main building. True to his word, the Doctor boldly opened the door and strolled up to the reception window, the full-frame glass partition separating visitor from staff.

"Hello," said the Doctor. "I'm here to..."

He trailed off.

She was impossibly beautiful. Amazingly beautiful. That woman behind the desk - the receptionist, presumably - was what mere words could only describe as "perfect". Long, flowing blonde hair framed a flawlessly smooth face, pouty full lips, and wide blue eyes that effortlessly ensnared all who looked into their depths. Anywhere else she'd be considered an idol of worship. Here, however, she was fumbling with a stapler.

"Oh, come on, silly thing." she muttered. "Why won't you work? It's just paper."

Amy appeared alongside the Doctor. She looked at him, looked at the woman, then back at him.

"Oh boy," she sighed in resignation.

The Doctor cleared his throat, which succeeded in attracting her attention. "Pardon me," he ventured, "but you've got them in upside down."

The woman looked down at her handiwork and immediately blushed. "I'm so foolish," she whispered, before straightening in her chair in an attempt to regain some composure. "Um, how can I help you?"

"Who's in charge around here? The big cheese? The boss-man?"

"Oh, that's Headmaster Kingsley. Shall I see-see if he's available?"

"If you'd be so kind."

The woman stood and daintily, cautiously, approached a door to her right. She knocked, softly, as if afraid of damaging the wood, and slowly opened it just wide enough for her to peer into. Her inquiring voice only travelled to the Doctor's ears as a faint murmur, but the response that followed was an almost deafening roar of anger. Deep, basey, undecipherable syllables boomed forth, and the Doctor and Amy could only exchange uncomfortable glances at the flurry of sound.

Then, as though such a response was perfectly routine, the woman closed the door and motioned to an adjoining one on the opposite side of the glass. "Headmaster Kingsley will see you now."

"Very kind," said the Doctor, managing a polite smile before turning to Amy. "Let's go."

"Wait," she whispered. "What's our story here? We're not exactly students."

"Come now, Amy. I think we can aim a bit higher than that."

"What? We're teachers?"

"Don't be daft. That's been done already. Besides, I need access to more than just the staff room tea cupboard on this one. Just follow my lead."

The Doctor closed his hand on the doorknob and deftly turned it, opening the door to a moderate office that housed a dark oak desk with a balding, red-faced, bespectacled man sitting behind it. Clearly he was angry and, lacking any evidence to the contrary, it could only be assumed that this was his default state.

"What's the nature of this?" he bellowed, leaping out of his chair as his eyes darted suspiciously between the two. "Who are you?"

The Doctor reached into his jacket pocket and produced his psychic paper, holding the magical blank display up to the headmaster's knife-like gaze. "Educational Standards Board," he replied authoritatively, "by order of the School Regulatory Commission and Department of Assessment."

The man looked blank. Amy stared, wide-eyed.

"School inspectors," the Doctor said.

"Again?" spluttered the headmaster. "But you lot were just in here last month!"

"Yes, well, we like to be thorough. A job done well is a job well done."

The headmaster didn't flinch. He looked the Doctor and Amy up and down, several times. He curled his lip. "Well... at least you're dressed the part," he said, motioning to the Doctor. "Not like Miss Floozy here. Honestly, what do you call _that_?"

Amy was taken aback, and stumbled around for a response. "Cowboy boots are... cool?" She looked to the Doctor for approval who, after briefly considering the remark, shook his head.

"I keep telling this one to dress the part," he offered, "but she's still the best-darned inspector that a school's ever seen. Now look, I know you're a busy headmaster man and have lots of important things to shout about, so I won't trouble you any further than to let you know I'll be needing full access of the premises and its facilities for the duration of our visit. The lot, from chalkboards to floorboards. Oh, and also your tea cupboard."

"I don't suppose you're giving me much of a choice," mumbled the headmaster. "Fine. Have your way with my school, but don't expect to find anything here. I run a tight ship."

"I'm sure you do," said the Doctor. "Good, strong wind keeping things on course. I'm sure there's nothing to worry about, so don't mind us; we'll be on our way in no time."

"Get on with it then," he said. "The sooner it's done, the sooner you're gone."

Ushering Amy out and closing the headmaster's door behind him, the Doctor looked back at the blonde receptionist, who had abandoned her battle with the stapler and met the Doctor's gaze almost apologetically.

"You'll have to excuse him," she said. "He doesn't like new people. They make him uncomfortable."

Amy raised her eyebrows in disbelief. " _He's_ uncomfortable? What about you? How do you put up with that every day?"

"Who he is is not who I am," the woman responded. "But that said, I ask that you do not overstay your visit. Headmaster Kingsley will tolerate a person's presence, but only for-for so long."

"I'll keep that in mind," said the Doctor. "Thank you, Miss..."

"Miranda."

He smiled giddily in response. "Miranda," he repeated, before turning feet first, then body, then shoulders, then - with all his willpower - his head, away from her whirlpool gaze as Amy led him down an adjoining corridor like a love-struck teenager.

"Did she seem weird to you?" she asked.

The Doctor was still smiling. "I think she's nice."

"Of course you do. But there was something..." she abandoned that thought before realising the obvious. "Right, your attention was elsewhere. Men! Same beasts, no matter when in the galaxy they're from." She leaned in, nose to nose. "Do try to remember we're not here for the view."

He blinked twice, three times, as if shaking off a hazy fog. "Yes, you're absolutely right. We've got a thing to do. Hope you've got your wits about you, Pond, because our six could be anyone."

A sharp bell clanged from atop the walls, marking the end of recess, and almost immediately students began filing in from outside. The Doctor and Amy soon found themselves enveloped in a sea of grey and white, their heads bobbing atop a wave of hustle and bustle.

"No time like the present," said the Doctor, and deftly grabbed the arm of a passing student, a girl, struggling with an armful of books. "You. Tell me about..."

He paused, and noticed a distinctly sad expression wearing on her young face.

"Is something the matter?"

"Yes," she replied.

"What is it?"

"Yes."

The Doctor tried to process this exchange. "Umm... got any other words?"

She looked at him. "'Yes'. The band. My favourite band. They broke up."

"Ooooh," he replied in daft realisation, before regaining his footing. "Not to worry, I'm sure they'll be back in a couple of years. Now, tell me about the teachers here. Who's the best? Who's the weirdest? Who wears funny hats?"

The student sniffed. "None of us are doing very well in maths at the moment, if that counts. The lessons are too hard."

"Too hard?"

"Look." She rifled through her burden and produced a worn exercise book, presenting the Doctor, then Amy, with the most recent page. "These are my notes from yesterday. I'm trying to keep up, I really am, but it's just... I don't know how."

Scribbled on the paper were dozens of alien-looking equations, comprising of symbols and calculations that no human mind could ever hope to conjure, let alone comprehend. Amy stared in bewilderment.

"That looks beyond your years."

"Not just that, it's beyond your species," the Doctor said grimly. "Where did you say this teacher is? We'd like to have a quick word."

"Room 103," the student pointed. "Down there, to the right."

"Come, Amy," said the Doctor, already heading forth. "We're late for class."


	3. Your Number's Up

**CHAPTER 3: YOUR NUMBER'S UP**

Navigating their way through the bustling hallway of school students, the Doctor and Amy inched closer to the door of Room 103. As they approached he pressed his back to the wall and, after inviting Amy to do the same, sideways-shuffled along in a covert-but-not-really manner. Stopping beside its frame, he slowly craned his neck around to look through the door's segmented windows - a class of students was beginning to settle down in their chairs, though none of them were looking particularly thrilled about it, a reaction that explained itself when the Doctor saw what was at the head of the class.

Writing on the blackboard was a woman of waif-like proportions; middle-aged, twisted frame, more grey hairs than not, and outfitted in a cardigan whose many holes questioned the worth of the garment. In squeaking chalk, she put the finishing touches on a work that took her to the very bottom corner of the blackboard: the numeric value of pi, written to as many digits as the limited wall space could allow. Line after line of hand-written numbers, cast in the finest print possible, filled every inch, the end result essentially masking the natural green of the board behind a white wall of chalk.

The teacher stood back from her handiwork and turned to face her class, her frown matching the sullen faces of her students. "Right," she snipped. "Since none of us can seem to remember lessons from day to day, we're going to try this one again. Miss Marshall!"

A girl in the back row jumped in her chair, staring forth like a deer in headlights. "Y-y-yes?"

"Please tell us the seven-hundredth-and-fifty-third digit of pi."

A cold silence filled the room. Eyes stared downwards into textbooks, not daring to meet with those of their demanding master. Poor Miss Marshall could only stutter.

"Um... uhh... err..."

"Come on!" cracked the teacher. "The answer's right in front of you! Just look at it and say the number!"

Sweat started to form on the girl's brow. "Umm... five?"

The teacher was stunned. "Five? _Five?_ What do you mean, five?"

"I'm sorry, Miss!" she pleaded.

"'Sorry' is _not_ the answer! The _correct_ answer, as displayed right _here_ ," -she rapped the blackboard with two demanding fingers- "is eight!" A pause, in an attempt to let what was deemed obvious to one sink in to the many. "I sincerely hope the rest of you knew that! But if you didn't..."

She grabbed the blackboard eraser and furiously swept over her writing, turning the pristine chalk numbers into faint smudgy smears. In seconds, the board was blank, and she picked up a stick of chalk which she held sharply out towards her class.

"...then you're going to learn, one number at a time. Marshall! Start writing! Then Jenkins, then Graham, then Morris..."

Still looking in as the teacher proceeded to list each student by name, the Doctor turned to face Amy. "Looks like we've got our first customer." With that, he swept the door open and strode into the classroom, his sudden appearance causing every head to instantly turn to meet his entrance in unison.

Psychic paper in hand, he approached the teacher, herself taken aback at such a bold intrusion. "Department of Mathematicians," the Doctor rushed. "Ma'am, your calculations are up for review; I must ask you to come with me."

And without giving her a choice, he grabbed the teacher firmly by the arm and hauled her out of the room. The class - still seated, still stunned - exchanged confused glances with one another as Amy popped her head in the door. "Just continue on where you left off," she said, before dashing back out again to catch up with the swiftly-moving Doctor and his new hostage.

"Let go of me!" she snapped. "I have a class to teach!"

"Yes, but you're not teaching those humans anything they'll find useful, are you?" the Doctor said, almost teasingly, dragging her down the now-abandoned corridor and down a nearby flight of stairs. "Haltrax calculus? On this planet? And pi to goodness knows how many delicious slices? Lesson one: know your audience!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about!" she protested, still straining against the vice-like grip of the Doctor as he moved down, down, down each flight of stairs. Amy raced alongside him as the three eventually reached the basement level of the building, the teacher's constant struggles for release taking on the echo of the space, dim and desolate. After advancing past several non-descript storage rooms, the Doctor finally stopped outside one that seemingly captured his attention.

"Yes. Good."

His free hand dipped into his jacket pocket to produce his sonic screwdriver, which he aimed at the door handle and swiftly caused it to unlock. Opening the door to reveal naught but a few spartan shelves, a tin bucket and an ageing mop, he roughly shoved the teacher inside, her back hitting the crusty brick wall.

"You're not from around here," the Doctor said simply.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, been to the fish and chip shop up the road, have we? Friends with the local butcher? Get straight with me and I might start being a little bit nicer. What's your purpose here? What are you planning, _kulmundor phobi_?"

The teacher said nothing, but stared into the Doctor's eyes with furious energy. Silence passed. Then:

"You know my kind."

The Doctor snorted. "Of course I know your kind. I've been around a bit - I know when the contents of a girl's notebook shouldn't be on this side of the universe for another eighty thousand years." He leaned in. "And I know you're not alone."

The teacher grinned, leering an expression of pure evil. "We will succeed. We have already begun."

"Where's your machine? I picked up the signature - where is it?"

"Your misguided words mean nothing, traveller."

"You will tell me your plan!"

"It has already begun."

" _Tell me_!"

And the teacher locked her gaze square on to that of the Doctor and said:

"Life. For. Death."

The Doctor paused, processed this exchange. Mental cogs turned almost visibly, but before the moment was allowed to extend any further he quickly spun on his heel, exited the small space and slammed the door behind him, re-locking it with the screwdriver. As he placed the device back into his jacket pocket his face was unreadable, unapproachable, and Amy peered forth in cautious concern.

"Doctor?"

He said nothing.

"What's going on?"

His eyes didn't meet hers. "I don't know," he said curtly.

"But what did that mean? 'Life for death?'"

"It means I'd better start knowing what's going on real soon."

Snapping himself out of his captured state, the Doctor walked towards the exit door with his hand again delving into a pocket, this time producing two tiny earpieces that looked no bigger than a marble. He took one and inserted it into his right ear, and held the other one out to Amy.

"We're splitting up. We need to cover more ground. Keep in touch with me with this; it'll work anywhere and everywhere, and if you see something you let me know about it."

Amy hurriedly took the device and placed it in her own ear. "And what am I looking for?"

"Someone similar to _that_ ," he said, placing an ugly emphasis on the last word. "Someone who's aiming off target when it comes to human interaction. Check every classroom, every teacher. And do it fast - by the sounds of it we're coming into this race on the final lap."

"Right," said Amy, nodding. "I'll take east wing, you take west wing."

"Good girl," the Doctor replied, racing towards the exit. "Now go!"


	4. The Heat of the Moment

**CHAPTER 4: THE HEAT OF THE MOMENT**

He went left, she went right. As quick as they could, the Doctor and Amy sprinted separately through the school's maze-like layout, two different sets of feet echoing the other's rhythmic, urgent steps. The Doctor, mirroring Amy's actions elsewhere, stopped at each classroom just long enough to catch a peek inside before hurriedly moving on to the next. It presented a frustrating pattern: the ones that weren't empty housed positively normal goings-on, and rows of students were simply writing in their textbooks or listening to their teacher in an unremarkable display of blandness. The same occurred with the next room, the next room, the next room...

"Anything?" urged the Doctor, pressing his earpiece close to communicate with its remote mate.

"All's quiet on the schooling front," Amy responded as she brushed past a bored-looking janitor. "English class is englishing, history class is historying... I'm looking, but there's nothing out of the ordinary here."

The Doctor grimaced. "We're missing something. Something obvious." He thumped his temples with his fingers, still moving, still searching. "What, how, when? Maybe they communicate telepathically - maybe word got out that we're on the hunt, and they're blen- no, _no_ , the Kulmundor don't do that. Stupid! _Stupid!_ What else? Did someone see us? They're spreading the word the old-fashioned way?

"Well, let's be honest," said Amy. "We weren't exactly subtle."

"What do you mean?"

"Hauling a maths teacher out mid-class? Nice way to not call attention to yourself."

"Hey, I'm from the Department of Mathematicians," he boasted. "I have authority."

" _And what authority is that?_ "

The Doctor froze. That wasn't Amy - that was someone else, someone standing right behind him. He instantly wheeled around to see a furious Headmaster Kingsley staring through slits of enraged eyes, nostrils flaring like an enraged bull. The red ball of anger was contrasted by the saint-like presence of Miranda standing meekly behind, her arms laden with a stack of loose papers. In mid-transit, presumably. The two of them. And obviously within earshot of the Doctor's candid confession.

"Err..." he began.

"A school inspector, are we? Or someone who's just got it in for numbers?" The headmaster cocked his head, almost in challenge. "Which is it, sir?"

"Well, both, technically," the Doctor replied, doing his best to remain composed to the temper in front of him. "Got to see if the teachers are up scratch in a school as fine as this one - nice paintwork, by the way." He ran his finger along a wall. "Very smooth."

The headmaster's eyes darted. "Where is she?"

"Who, Missus Maths? My partner's just got her for a quick chat. Five minutes. She'll be back among all those glorious numbers in no time."

A tense pause. "Let's get this straight," the headmaster growled, leaning in. "I don't like you. I don't like you poking your nose around my school. And I don't like you poking your nose around my school and gloating about it. Just do your job, and I'll do mine, knowing that the difference between you and me is that, tomorrow, you won't be doing it here."

He turned to face Miranda, who appeared bolted to the spot in the wake of her boss's temper. "You. Hurry up. _Now!_ " He punctuated his last word with a forceful burst of volume so sudden that, out of sheer shock, she dropped her papers in surprise, the lot spilling to the floor in a flurry of white. Headmaster Kingsley looked at Miranda, looked down at the strewn load, then back to Miranda. He rolled his eyes and gave a shark " _tsk!_ " of disapproval, then coldly marched away, leaving the stunned woman to look helplessly at her mess.

She crouched down and limply started to retrieve the papers, and the Doctor immediately followed suit. "Here, let me help you with that," he said, fetching all that were within reach.

Miranda's face looked up, enveloping his with her bottomless eyes. "Thank you," she blushed. Her gaze lingered. His made no attempt to leave. For a moment, time slowed down for two people who felt like they were the only ones in the universe, their faces mere inches apart. Yet it was the Doctor who, somehow, regained focus, perhaps snapped back into reality at the importance of the task hanging over his head. He managed a smile as he handed Miranda his collection of papers before standing.

"I, umm... I've got to go," he fumbled. "Things to do, places to inspect."

She stood, hugging her newly-collected stack close to her chest. "Of course."

Neither of them moved.

Miranda cleared her throat in nervous hesitation. "Where will you be?"

"Hmm?"

"Headmaster said you-you won't be here tomorrow. So where _will_ you be?"

"Ahh." The Doctor smiled sympathetically before weighing up his response. "That, Miss Miranda, is a question that, for as long as I've been alive, I've never known the answer to. Every day is a blank slate. Every day is a new challenge. For me, it's not about where I'm going tomorrow, but about the journey that I'm on today."

Miranda looked to one side before asking, almost inaudibly, "And are you liking today?"

"Oh, you know," the Doctor said. "It's got its moments."

* * *

At the other side of the building, Amy continued her fruitless search. Classroom after classroom presented naught but normality, and in the face of her urgent assignment, it was beginning to grate.

"Nothing," she sighed, clear frustration heaving forth.

It was approaching midday, and options were running out. Amy looked around in desperation - up, down, side to side - as if her surroundings could point towards a solution, or provide some sort of inspiration. It was a nearby wall that offered something other than beige paint and bulletin boards: a simple black sign, with clean white letters indicating what lay just around the corner: "CAFETERIA".

Amy paused, then realised that the mere hint of food caused her stomach to lurch into unmistakable hunger pangs. She licked her lips. Adventuring with the Doctor rarely presented timely opportunities to eat - she couldn't even remember her last meal. With her appetite tipping the scales, Amy followed the sign and rounded the corner.

Pushing through double doors a short distance away, she entered a large, but totally empty, dining area, populated with plastic-backed chairs sitting around numerous tables. The room's massive windows brightened every corner via the midday sun, and as Amy walked across the linoleum floors, her boots click-clacked in a metronome-like echo.

It was this sound that attracted attention on the other side of the room. "Oh, hello dear."

Amy approached the voice, coming from the service area. Standing behind the _bain marie_ food bar was an elderly woman - white hair curled up beneath a similarly white netting, big round glasses magnifying dot-like eyes, and a soft face cushioned with wrinkles that would remind anyone of their own grandmother. A kindly old lady, and one who looked genuinely confused at Amy's unexpected entry.

"We're not open yet," the woman said. "Lunch isn't for another half-hour."

"Oh, that's alright," Amy replied. "I was just, uhh, looking for a quick snack. Lots of study to do!"

"Are you a student here?" The woman was looking over Amy's distinctly non-school uniform attire.

"Yes... but I'm new. First day." She paused, gathering her story. "Lots of study! Did I mention that? Boy, they really get you hitting the ground running 'round here!"

A sigh. "Well, there's not much ready yet, dear. Can you wait a bit?"

"But anything's fine, really," Amy pleaded. "How about some chips?"

The woman turned her head to look into the kitchen area at the rear. "They're in the oven now. I can check on them, if you like? You might be lucky!"

"Could you? That'd be wonderful."

She shuffled away, leaving Amy to stare idly at the empty trays lining the food bar. Gentle steam plumes emanated from the water bubbling away underneath, curling up against the glass and forming white peaks of condensation. Too early for real food, she thought sadly. But chips would have to do for now.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a series of clatters, the sound of dull strikes against a flat metal surface. Amy craned her neck over the counter to look into the kitchen beyond, but couldn't see anything from her current vantage point; a rack of free-standing shelves obscured much of the view. She ventured to a nearby "Staff Only" door and slowly pushed inwards to enter the food preparation area, now viewable from corner to corner, and revealing the old woman at a bench in its centre.

"Everything alright?" she ventured.

The woman's head snapped around instantly, eyes wide. Sitting next to her on the benchtop was a packet of freshly opened frozen chips, the contents of which had only just now been dumped on a metal oven tray, the tumbling producing the thumping sounds that Amy had heard. But the tray was sizzling. The chips were cooking right there on the metal surface, heated somehow by an external energy source as the old woman held each side and-

No, Amy realised. There _was_ no external energy source. It was the woman. Her hands - her bare hands, glowing a fiery, inhuman red - were heating that tray to a temperature high enough for it to serve as an impromptu hotplate. And there she was, staring right at Amy. Her alien secret exposed. Caught, quite literally, red-handed.

"I-I-I think I've lost my appetite," Amy stammered, slowly backing away.

But the woman, eyes still trained on Amy, casually dropped the tray to the floor in an alarming clang, chips spilling left and right, and proceeded to slowly stalk towards her. "Come, child. Let me warm you up." Her arms slowly raised out in front, fingers clawed towards Amy like searing hot pokers and radiating super-charged heat.

"Get back," Amy warned, though not at all convincingly.

Like a predator slowly stalking its prey, the woman continued to advance, the sudden evil of her actions betraying her kindly old face. "Life..." she growled.

" _Get back!_ "

"...For..."

Amy shrieked, not knowing where to turn.

"...Death..."


	5. To Heed the Call

**CHAPTER 5: TO HEED THE CALL**

She was cornered. Trapped. Amy could only stare at her impending doom as red-hot fingers of fire stalked towards her at the hands of the woman - no, _thing_ \- leering at her from ear to ear. Inches away now, she could feel the savage heat radiating from them like angry spears, toying with the air and prey alike. Impossibly hot. And a hair's breadth from her face. Amy could only press herself against the wall and clench her eyes shut.

 _Blackness_.

A single, tense moment of nothing was followed by an alarmingly loud hissing sound nearby. Hissing - and _screaming_. Amy cautiously opened an eye, but all she could see was a ferocious white cloud of gas blasting forth from some sort of nozzle, spraying around the air like one would spray a water hose to quench a fire.

She opened both eyes and looked around further, realising what was going on. Clutching a red fire extinguisher was the Doctor, furiously aiming the contents directly into the face of the old woman, shrieking in horror as she tried to shield herself with her hands, their colour gradually reeling back from angry red into normal human pink. Still screaming, she fell to the floor, but still the Doctor kept up his attack until her screams faded into a strangled whimper, and then into silence. The woman didn't move, but her eyes and mouth remained open, her face frozen in an eternal scream.

The Doctor finally ceased his attack. Releasing the handle on the extinguisher, he dropped it to the floor in a hollow _clang_ and rushed up to Amy.

"Are you hurt?" he asked frantically.

She shook a foggy head in confusion. "She... her fingers... she was..."

"A common Pyrothma," he said. "Heat-based lifeforms. Pure energy flowing through their veins and able to regulate their own body temperature from 'warm cup of tea' to 'molten volcanic core'. Great when they're hot, not so great when they're cold. And this one is definitely..." -he nudged the body's arm with his shoe- "...out cold."

Amy's lungs took a deep reflexive inhale, realising that, amid all the action, she'd forgotten to breathe. She looked at the Doctor, eyes wide. "I was this close to... I mean, I nearly..."

"But you didn't," he interjected, holding her face in his hands so she couldn't help but focus on him. "You didn't. That's the important thing. Thumbs up to these, eh?" He tapped his ear, indicating the hidden device within. "Keeps everything within earshot."

Amy peered over the Doctor's shoulder and down at the woman on the floor. "Is she dead?"

"Unconscious," he said, scooting down to a crouch near the frosted body. "Cooled it down just enough to subdue it - no lasting damage, but we've only got a few minutes. Grab her legs."

"Her what?"

The Doctor was already propping up the woman's shoulders, hoisting her upwards by hooking his arms under hers. "Legs. Grab. Come on, Pond!"

Amy quickly scuttled forth and gripped a wrinkled ankle in each hand, and the two of them cumbersomely lifted the woman up off the floor. Following the Doctor's lead, she helped shuffled her towards a large latched door, hefty and thick with metal plating and insulation.

"The fridge," Amy realised.

Freeing himself of one hand, the Doctor used it to fumble the latch open, swinging the door outward to reveal the cooled store room within. Stacked cardboard boxes of frozen food touched the ceiling, swirled by pockets of fogged air. The two continued to drag the woman in, slowly lowered her to the chilled concrete floor, and exited before locking the door behind them.

"That should do the trick," the Doctor said. "But why?"

"Well, heat doesn't like the cold," Amy replied.

"No, not that. Why is a Pyrothma here? Obviously they're working together, but... Amy, did it say anything to you? The woman. Anything at all?"

She paused, then remembered. "'Life for death.' When she did her finger... thing... she said 'life for death'. Like that teacher."

The Doctor looked at her, eyes wide in alarm, before clutching his chin. "This is bad. Baddy, baddy, bad. Worse than I thought, and I already though it was pretty bad." He started pacing. "First a Kulmundor, then a Pyrothma... we're not looking for six of the same lifeforms - we're looking for six different _species_. Six species all part of the same... motto club? No. What are they up to?"

He paused, allowing himself time to think. Amy longed for something helpful to offer, but felt too far out of her depth. If this one was stumping even the Doctor, what could she possibly-

... _riiiiiiiiiiiiing_...

She looked up, scanned the room. A noise. A phone. Extremely distant, barely carrying down multiple hallways and corridors, but it was unmistakably a ringing phone.

One with an electronic ringtone.

"Doctor," she ventured, tapping him lightly on the shoulder.

His eyes were distant, his attention preoccupied. "What am I missing?" he muttered to himself.

... _riiiiiiiiiiiiing_...

"Doctor," Amy said again, a little bolder.

"In a second, Amy," he said, waving her off dismissively.

She cocked her head in annoyance. A heaving sigh of typical _Oh, Doctor_ frustration preceded her arm drawing back as she sent a demanding fist straight into his shoulder.

" _Gaaaooowww_..." he winced, clutching the point of impact. "Dead arm!"

Amy gestured towards the sound in response, and the Doctor finally seemed to register its presence. "Oooohhhh..." he said in sudden realisation.

He paused.

Then: "Someone should pick that up."

Amy rolled her eyes - again, typical Doctor. "That's a mobile phone," she offered.

"Yes."

"And we're in 1981."

"Yes," the Doctor said daftly, almost playing along for fear of more punches, rather than from any genuine understanding.

Amy leaned in closer, practically ramming her point home through her steely gaze. "We're. In. Nineteen. Eighty. One."

An almost visible light sprang to life in the recesses of the Doctor's mind. Putting two and two together, he looked at Amy in alarm. "That's a mobile phone," he gasped, before turning and racing out of the kitchen, out of the cafeteria, and into the nearest corridor.

Amy chased after him, barely keeping up with the Doctor's sudden speed. Following him throughout the maze-like layout of the building, she realised that the still-ringing phone was getting closer, its electronic trills unmistakably pointing towards its untimely origins. The Doctor rounded a corner, and Amy followed step, before the two halted immediately at the sight in front of them.

There, a short distance away, stood a young boy - a student, smartly dressed in the school's uniform - standing alone in the middle of the hallway, his back towards Amy and the Doctor. The phone was evidently now answered, for he was holding it against his ear and conversing with an unknown party in a casual-yet-secretive manner. Casually secretive? If such a demeanour existed, it was on display here, and the Doctor allowed himself a moment to observe the display before him, taking advantage of his unnoticed presence. Then, after exchanging a brief glance with Amy, he stormed forward and plucked the phone clean from the boy's grasp.

"Who's this, then?" he teased, before holding up the phone to his ear. "Hello? Anyone there?" The dull beeping on the line said it all. "Oh, they hung up," he pouted. "Rudie-rude."

"Give that back!" the boy exclaimed.

"No, not doing that." The Doctor produced his sonic screwdriver from his jacket pocket and scanned the phone up and down. "A phone like this shouldn't be here - and I don't mean in school, though give them a few more years and they'll be all about wagging Biology to text that 'Omg' fellow. I mean it shouldn't be here _in this time_. Honestly, don't you lot do your research?" He flicked up the screwdriver and looked at it for the apparent verdict. "Fashtren technology. Makes sense - multiple species. Real-time language translation for when you're not getting around in your human pyjamas, and a simple communication device that can keep all six of you in touch when you are. And seeing that trace readings indicate an actual Fashtren presence, I guess that makes you the leader. Not a very bright one, though. A mobile phone? Here? You silly duffer!"

The boy looked left, then right. Then straight at the Doctor. "Fancy observations," he said coldly, "but there's so much you don't see. And by the time you catch up, it'll be too late. I don't know who you are or what you think you're playing at, but if you value good advice as much as you value your own life, you'll leave. You'll turn around and leave. And you'll do it right now."

The Doctor appeared to consider this proposal. "Mmmm. Nope. Not while we're having so much fun. Oh, and you won't mind if I hang on to this little toy." He waggled the phone playfully just out of the boy's reach. "You'll get it back at the end of the class, but first I need to do this."

He activated his sonic screwdriver at the phone, causing a piercing electronic squeal to emanate from its speaker. The boy immediately clutched his ears in pain and fell to his knees, dazed, disoriented. Immobilised. The Doctor pocketed both devices and grabbed the boy, hoisting him over his shoulder as he ran towards the stairs, descending downwards.

"What was that?" Amy asked, racing alongside him. "What did you do?"

"Hypersonic feedback loop," he panted. "A quick how-do-you-do from the sonic through the translation circuits and into the painful end of the Fashtren hearing range. Oh, how I love it when a spur-of-the-moment plan comes together!"

Down, down, down they scuttled, once again following the stairs right through to the basement level. They quickly navigated its dank brick and mortar corridor, soon arriving at the Doctor's favoured storage room, which he fumbled open with his screwdriver just as the boy - or creature - in his arms lurched to life.

"Hello, gorgeous!" the Doctor said cheerfully. "I've brought you a friend!"

The boy looked around to see him addressing a wiry woman - the maths teacher, or at least the imitation of one - squinting in the light from the confines of the cramped walls. A prisoner. One that he knew, and one that he would be soon accompanying.

"In you go!"

Almost comically, the Doctor thrust the boy into the storage room, bumping him into the woman and pushing them both to the back wall. Regaining his footing, the boy looked at her angrily.

"You could have called."

She looked back, just as fierce. "You could have made sure the battery was charged."

The Doctor grinned. "I'm sure you two have plenty to talk about. Just before you do, though, any chance you can shed some light on your little plan? You know, rush this whole thing forward a bit?"

They both stared at him, sullen. Unresponsive.

"How about that big machine of yours, then?"

Nothing.

"Right, just thought I'd ask. But whatever happens later, remember that I gave you a chance."

And with that, the Doctor slammed the door shut once more, locking it with the screwdriver. He took a breath and looked at Amy.

"Three down, three more to go. But now we have an advantage." He held up the mobile phone. "I can tune into this with the TARDIS and use its signal to pinpoint the other communicators. Save ourselves any more rushing around."

"Great," said Amy.

"Yes, great," he replied. "But first I need you to do a bit more rushing around."

"What? What for?"

"Young Master Fashtren was talking to someone. I need you to do a quick sweep and see if you can find anyone else with one of these doo-dads - if you find something you let me know, but we don't have long. Quick sticks, Pond." He started racing forth before stopping in his tracks.

"Sticks aren't quick," he realised.

Amy gave him a playful push. "Come on!"

And shoulder to shoulder, the two raced out of the basement.

* * *

Footsteps.

A lone figure entered darkness, a grimy hand fumbling around on a wall for a light switch. The school janitor, fresh from his shift, trundled down the freshly lit basement corridor pushing a green wheeled bin in front of him. Whistling idly, he approached a storage room as he jangled his keys from his hip, turning one in the lock before opening the door to-

He froze. There, huddled towards the back wall, eyes blinking into focus, was … was that Miss Edwards? What was she doing here? And young Peter?

"Oh, Clive," said the woman in breathless relief. "Thank goodness it's you."

He looked confused. His eyes went between the woman to the student, and back again. "What are you two doing in here? Nothing..." He raised an eyebrow. "You know..."

"Oh, don't be daft," she snapped. "It's that new inspector. He locked us both in here."

"The _inspector_? The one with the red-head?" The janitor recalled the strange new girl who had hurriedly brushed past him earlier.

The teacher nodded. "He just grabbed me. Shoved this one in not long after. He was asking all these questions."

"What sort of questions?"

"Something about a machine. He wanted to know where the machine was."

"What machine?"

"I don't know." A pause. "But he's interfering."

The janitor mulled over the woman's statement, her revelations. He processed her words one at a time. And he looked at her, right into her eyes, and said in a conspiratorial voice no louder than a whisper:

" _Life. For. Death._ "


	6. Bargaining Chips

**CHAPTER 6: BARGAINING CHIPS**

"Remind me," puffed Amy, maintaining an even run alongside the Doctor, "why I'm heading out for another look through this haystack school when you're going to find these last three needles with some TARDIS jiggery-pokery?"

"Because! It's all about efficiency!" the Doctor replied, buoyed by seemingly limitless energy. "I head to the TARDIS, I plug in our magic alien phone, it points to its friends, and I contact _my_ friend - that's you - out in the field. If you've already found our next target by then, great! A lolly for you! If not, then I'll be able to put you on the right path and meet you there. A lolly for me!"

She looked the Doctor up and down. "Do you often carry lollies around with you?"

"Of course. Why, don't you?" He reached into a hip pocket and fished out its dusty contents. "Got some jelly babies here. Might be a bit old, though."

"I'll pass, thanks."

"Probably a good idea. Watch your back, Pond!"

Their cue to split, and the Doctor peeled around a corner to leave Amy alone once more. "That goes double for you!" she called after his fading footsteps. And then, to herself, muttered: "I'm not a child anymore, you know."

Soldering forth solo, the Doctor bumbled down the hallways, halving his pace between conducting his own on-the-fly investigation through every passing door and window - in the hope that further information might present itself - and making his way to the TARDIS outside. Attention flittering, he passed a whirlwind of posters, lockers, filled classrooms, blackboards-

And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw her, and allowed himself to come to a complete stop.

Miranda. A picture of perfection anywhere else, anytime else, was standing behind a windowed door a short distance away, cowering submissively before Headmaster Kingsley who was blustering in his usual manner with an elevated voice and flailing limbs. Indecipherable bassy booms of anger were all that could be heard, but the tears streaming down Miranda's face said it all. And he wasn't relenting. Wave after wave of noise was unleashed upon her, paired with angry gesticulation. If Headmaster Kingsley's usual dial was set to ten, this performance was most certainly an eleven.

Eventually, finally, he stopped. He cocked his head to the door, a sign that Miranda took as her cue to leave. She hurriedly exited and, visibly shaking, started to make her way along the hallway, but when she saw the Doctor's figure standing there in stunned disbelief, she stopped and turned the other way.

His feet were already moving. "Wait!" he called out, jogging forth in concern. "Wait a moment."

She remained turned, but did not move. He approached her side and studied her face.

"You're crying," he said, simply. "Any other day, that man doesn't get to you. Anger off a duck's back. But not today."

She sniffed. "It's all my-my fault."

"There's no excuse for a temper like that, Miranda. Don't you dare give him one. Now you tell me what happened."

A hesitation. "He went to get his lunch - they usually have it ready ahead of the others, his orders. Kitchen staff know to serve him before the rest. But there was no-one there. Mrs Young was rostered on for today, but she's nowhere to be found. Nor is Miss Edwards. And the morning janitor hasn't clocked off from his shift yet. I-I don't know where they are. I should know. It's my job to know. But I don't-don't. I don't know."

She started to shudder in tears, burying her face in her hands. The Doctor stood, frozen. _Stupid_ , he thought. _Stupid_. How could he have ever figured that his interference with a working staff routine would go unnoticed? To march right into classrooms, to hide unconscious bodies, and have it simply dismissed or accepted? What sort of thinking was that?

 _You're getting old, Doctor. You take too much for granted._

"I'm... sorry," he offered. "I wish I could help, but..." He let himself trail off before attempting to lighten the mood. "If I notice anything during the course of my inspectorising, you'll be the first I'll tell. Deal?"

Miranda looked at him. "That-that would be most helpful."

The Doctor tilted his head in curiosity. "The way you speak," he said, mouth curling into a gentle smile. "I've noticed it from the moment I met you. Some words... forgive me, but there are moments when you'll say some words twice."

She looked embarrassed. "A simple stutter," she blushed. "I've had it since birth."

"A 'simple stutter' would have anyone else tripping over those S's faster than dancing in flippers," said the Doctor. "Have you ever tried dancing in flippers, Miranda? Don't - not unless you're underwater, in which case it's less about dancing and more swimming, in which case swimming is probably a good idea. But there's something quite curious about you." He paused. Wondered. Ventured. "Know of any mega-powerful machines around these parts?"

Miranda shook her head. "I'm not sure."

"That's okay, no-one else seems to know, either. Worth a shot, though. Most things in _life_ are. Though there are some things you try _for_ , only to find out that _death_ would be a more welcome option." He leaned back, gauging her reaction on his emphasised words. "' _Life. For. Death_ '. Good little motto, don't you think?"

Her eyes widened. A flicker to the left. Her face, however, remained unmoved. "It's... wonderful."

A similar flicker ignited within the Doctor. _A reaction_.

"Been here long, Miranda?"

"Here? Oh no, a month or so. Still don't-don't have my own parking space yet."

 _Hmm_.

"And where were you before? Somewhere with a good view of the night sky, perhaps? Somewhere, I don't know, _out of this world_?"

Heavy emphasis, deliberate and obvious. Her eyes widened again. "Nowhere special," she said.

The Doctor studied her face. No hints, no clues, yet something was definitely amiss. His mind raced through the possibilities, profiling her against his galaxy-wide knowledge. Nothing about her seemed to point towards any particular species or race - there were no giveaway, tell-tale signs that betrayed a perception filter, save for a possible speech quirk. Was that enough to go on? A hunch is all well and good, he reasoned, but a mistake now would surely attract widespread enemy attention - and goodness knows that far too much human attention had been attracted already.

"You," he said in wonder. "I've seen a lot in my years. I've been through even more. But... I can't place you." He leaned in, studying Miranda in fascination. "Who are you...?"

... _riiiiiiiiiiiiing_...

His pocket started vibrating, paired with an unmistakable electronic trill. Thoughts interrupted, the Doctor fished out the ringing mobile phone he'd claimed from the boy-slash-alien. He stared at it in his hand, pondered his course of action. Should he answer it? Impersonate its owner, or reveal to the caller that their group is being uncovered? What about letting it ring out? The caller would either be none the wiser, or get suspicious right away. What to do? What to do?

... _riiiiiiiiiiiiing_...

"What is _that_?" asked Miranda.

The Doctor looked at her. Her face was one of genuine wonder, staring at the phone in boggled astonishment. Trying to determine its function. Coming to grips with its appearance. Puzzlement ebbed and flowed. Hardly, the Doctor reasoned, the reaction of someone who should be familiar with it.

Was he wrong? His hunch - was it totally misread? Was he simply speaking with someone who'd merely offered more confusion than evasion?

... _riiiiiiiiiiiiing_...

Best be on the safe side.

"Well?" Miranda asked.

The Doctor blinked twice, three times, and attempted to crack a smile. "It's a thing that rings. A ringing thing. And a crazy person would pretend to talk to it, which is what I'm going to do." He pressed a button and lifted the device to his ear, waiting. Listening.

Silence. A crack of static. Then:

"Hello, traveller."

That voice. He knew that voice. Menacing, knowing, and young.

"Fashtren," the Doctor said, deadpan.

"How crude," came the response. "I do have a name, you know."

"How are you calling me? I've got your thing. I'm talking to you on it."

"You have mine, I have that of another. We both have ways, it seems."

He grimaced. _Too slow, too sloppy._

"What do you want?" the Doctor asked.

"Many things, traveller. We want you to leave. We want you to forget all about us. But before you do, we want you to give us a piece of information."

"Now why would I do any of that?" The Doctor's voice started to rise. "Because you think I'm a polite, abiding chap? You have absolutely no idea."

"Nor, it seems, do you."

The Doctor's phone began to emit a high-pitched beeping, forcing him to hold it out and away from his ear. His arm extended before him, the device projected a small beam of cone-shaped light upwards, forming a rudimentary holographic image - pixelated at first, but drawing a scene that caused the Doctor's throat to contract in a tight lump.

 _Amy._

 _Unconscious._

 _Slumped against the wall of an unknown location._

And then, in an instant, the hologram was deactivated, replaced with the sound of sinister chuckling.

The Doctor drew the phone to his ear once again, and the sound became louder. "She was remarkably easy," the Fashtren's boy voice said in delight.

"You're lying. It's a simulation, a trick."

"I assure you, it's no trick. But can you afford to take that chance, even if it were?"

"Where is she?" the Doctor growled.

"With us. We found her wandering around by herself. One of our brothers teleported her to a holding cell in our craft, far away from prying eyes and meddling _school inspectors_. Really, you leave it alone for two seconds and it gets taken in by the pound. Put a bell on it or something."

"Your... craft?"

"Our base of operations, moored far from this mouldy rock. Ready and waiting to descend upon our glorious victory."

"And what does victory involve exactly?"

"Ah, tut-tut-tut," the voice said, revelling in the moment. "Too much too soon. First, the information."

"What information?"

"Our numbers are not whole. We are missing a brother. The one the humans somewhat paradoxically refer to as 'Missus Young'."

The Doctor paused. Miranda had mentioned someone by that name earlier - the kitchen lady, wasn't it? The one he and Amy had locked... in...

"Oh."

"Ah, so you know that name. Then you must know its whereabouts."

"So what if I do." The Doctor nervously ran his fingers through his hair. He could see where this was going.

"You will tell us the location of our brother," said the Fashtren, "or your female will die."

A pause. The Doctor bit his lip, throwing around a hundred different scenarios in his head and trying to play out multiple outcomes. What aces did he have up his sleeve? What about the Fashtren? What variables, hidden or otherwise, did he need to account for? Like lightning, the thoughts urgently zapped around his head.

"And you'll release her?" he asked. "You'll let her go if I tell you?"

"She'll be back on that wretched planet totally unharmed."

"I need your word, now."

A chuckle. "My dear fellow, right now you don't have anything else. Or should we skip the bargaining and have her killed this instant?"

"NO!" The Doctor quickly shouted his response, alarming the still-watching Miranda nearby. And then, quieter: "No. Don't. I'll tell you."

"A wise choice," the Fashtren replied, its smile practically audible from the phone's speaker.

More scenarios. More playthoughs. Something. Anything. A last-ditch scraping for another option, but a fruitless one. And so it was through gritted teeth that the Doctor, his voice strained, said two simple words:

"Kitchen. Fridge."

"There, you see?" said the Fashtren, almost cheerfully. "That wasn't so hard!" Then his tone dropped. "Brother Zanrope, did you hear that?"

"Loud and clear," confirmed a third voice - a new voice, human-sounding. Female. Unknown. "I'm near there now. Stand by."

"Isn't that convenient?" the Fashtren leered. "Nice and close. No boring waiting around for the verdict."

"Well, in the meantime," ventured the Doctor, "how about you tell me a bit more about what you lot are up to? This big, grand plan and this big, grand machine. Lots of grand things happening. What's it all about then?"

"Oh, traveller. Forgive me, but I must ask, for you seem fixated out of sheer ignorance: what is this 'machine' you keep speaking of?"

"Don't give me that. A machine, a device, a smartbomb, a something. Huge processing power, but not so good at hiding itself from a TARDIS scanner. I've picked it up, I know it exists, and I know you're hiding it."

Another chuckle. Longer this time. Its owner seemed to revel in it.

"But you don't seem to know," said the Fashtren between chortles, "that you're profoundly mistaken."

"What's that?"

" _We have no machine._ "

A burst of static. "Brother Zanrope reporting in. The location was correct. I've secured Brother Pyrothma. Unconscious but stable. The plan can proceed."

"I've done what you asked," urged the Doctor. "Now release Amy!"

"I think not," growled the Fashtren, its tone instantly menacing. "Such is the price for being too trusting, not to mention too _meddlesome_. Are you enjoying my communicator, by the way?"

The Doctor didn't respond.

"I designed them myself. Great little things, they are. Language translation, hologram projection, and best of all, they even come with a remote destruct feature."

And at that instant, the device started to spark and smoke in the Doctor's hand. He flung it forth in reflex, causing it to fly into a nearby wall and splinter the casing to reveal the freshly smouldering circuitry within.

"NO! he cried. " _NO!_ "

The Doctor got to his hands and knees, inspecting the pieces for anything that was remotely intact, anything that looked like it could still serve a use. But it was no good. Everything was equally scorched and broken. The phone, destroyed.

Clear anger bubbled forth. "NO!"

He stood, hands on hips and a puff of frustrated air. The Doctor looked around him, desperately searching for a solution, but could only see an extremely confused and bewildered Miranda, eyes as wide as saucers, taking in the scene before her. The Doctor noticed.

"Bad reception," he offered, not even bothering to think of a better explanation under the circumstances.

What now? What options were left before him? His link to Amy's captor was severed, his plan to trace the remaining communicator was up in smoke, and doing another sweep of the school would only use more time that he didn't have. If only he could reach-

Wait.

 _Wait!_

The Doctor rapidly tapped his right ear, activating the earpiece still embedded within. It was worth a shot. It was his only shot.

"Amy. Are you there? Can you hear me?"

Silence.

Stone cold silence.

Seconds felt like hours, until...

"Urhhhhh..."

"Amy! Oh, I love the range on these things! You're alive! You're okay!"

"My head hurts." Her voice was groggy, but she was conscious.

"Amy, next chance I get I'm going to make you a nice cup of tea and let you get some R and R, but right now I need you to be brilliantly amazing and stand up for me. Nice and slow, but get up and have a look around you. Can you do that for me?"

A confused pause. "Where am I?"

"Ah, well, you're on an alien spaceship that's parked somewhere in the galaxy, but don't worry, because we're going to get you out of there somehow."

"I'm on a _what_?"

"Amy, please, have a look around. Describe what you see."

He could hear a laboured sigh, the shuffling of feet. She was getting up. "It's dark."

"Let your eyes adjust. Look around. What's in front of you?"

"I see... a tube. A big glass tube. Vertical."

"Okay, good. What else?"

"No, wait." More shuffling. "I see five tubes. Wires feeding into them. Oh no..."

"What? What is it?"

Amy's voice started to shake. "There's people. People in there."

"Right, okay," said the Doctor, processing the description. "Tubes, wires, people. Amy, what do the people look like?"

"They're... not moving." Panic.

"It's alright, calm down. It sounds like they're in stasis. They're unharmed. Look at them for me, Amy. Describe them."

"One is... hang on a second." Alertness now took over her voice as she processed the situation. "There's a woman in here who looks exactly like the maths teacher in the school."

"I'm guessing that _is_ the maths teacher," said the Doctor. "The real one, not the fake baddie one."

"And in the tube next to her, there's the boy."

"The real boy."

"Doctor? What's going on?"

"Obviously our intergalactic friends have rounded up some everyday humans to use as their disguise. They're maintaining a psychic link with their physical form."

"Well, can't we break the link?" asked Amy. "Can't I release these people?"

"You can, but I don't think you should. Best case, the entire school goes into a tizzy when their dear lunch lady turns into a big scary alien. Worst case, removing the link puts the person into a coma."

"So what then? We just leave them?"

"One step at a time. First, I need a lead. Who else is there in those tubes? Who haven't we seen yet? I need to know who else they're masquerading as - hopefully it's not too late to find them."

Amy shuffled around the tubes. "There's a janitor here."

"Too generic. They all look the same. Who else?"

Another shuffle. "A woman. Long black frizzy hair, a flowery dress. Coloured paint on her hands and fingers."

The Doctor clucked his tongue. "Perfect. Nice one - and I know just where to go for that arty customer. Who's the last one?"

"Sorry?"

"Who's the last tube person? You said there were five. Who's the sixth?"

"Umm..." Amy scanned the room. "There's only five in here."

What?

"But there can't be. We picked up six in the TARDIS. We know there are six." He paused, juggled the numbers in his head. Remembered the scan. It _was_ six. It was definitely six. "Can you check again, Amy? No-one there with blonde hair, full lips, big blue eyes, perchance?"

"I haven't forgotten how to count," huffed Amy. "Five tubes, five people. Five, Doctor."

So who - and where - was the sixth?


	7. Lost in Space

**CHAPTER 7: LOST IN SPACE**

The Doctor was rooted to the spot in stunned disbelief, processing the information Amy had relayed to him. Five abducted humans for five alien lifeforms, yet the TARDIS had picked up six distinct signals. What was going on?

"Amy, things aren't adding up," he said. "I'm not sure what's going on yet, but sit tight, because an incredibly clever plan is on its way."

The Doctor tapped his ear, pausing the audio feed, and then he remembered: Miranda. She was still standing there off to one side, a witness to his entire half of the conversation, and he could only wonder what was going through her mind. Her face certainly showed no indication, hovering somewhere between confusion, amazement, bewilderment and wonder. Somehow, with great effort, she furrowed her brow and looked at the Doctor.

"What... who were... what was...?"

He smiled gently. "Lots of questions, I know. Questions are fun, so let me go first: where's the art room?"

"Uhh..." She tried to return to focus. "Art room?"

"Yes, art room. A room of arty things. A teacher. Black frizzy hair?"

"Oh. Yes-yes. Room 128." She still sounded dazed.

"Thank you," said the Doctor, genuinely. And with that, he started heading forth, but only took himself a few paces before stopping and looking back over his shoulder at Miranda.

"Answers are coming," he assured her. "After this is over, I'll explain everything. You deserve at least that much."

And then he ran.

Time was of the essence now. Things were becoming increasingly stacked against the Doctor, and whatever was happening - whatever these six, or five, were up to - was going to happen soon. They'd reformed their numbers. They had Amy on their ship. And they'd _laughed_. That was what irked the Doctor more than anything else - repeatedly, they'd flat-out laughed at his efforts and interrogations, knowing full well they were always a few steps ahead.

No longer, he told himself.

Answers are coming.

Feet pounded the floor as he maintained his pace, passing countless classrooms until he reached the right one: Room 128. The Doctor paused outside the door, allowing himself a moment of observation through its window. Wall to wall, the room was filled with art projects from dozens of students, pinned up for display and all showcasing varying ranges of colour and talent. Moving around tables, picking up used paintbrushes from scuffed tables, was a figure true to Amy's description. Long, black hair with strands that seemed to repel each other in every direction. A flowery dress, faded here and there. Sandals. A green pendant around her neck.

An exact replica of the woman trapped aboard that alien spacecraft. An alien in human's clothing.

Satisfied, he tapped his earpiece into life and announced to Amy: "Plan. Clever. Soon."

And tapping it off again, he swiftly opened the door and marched into the classroom.

With a handful of paintbrushes, the woman moved towards a nearby sink, seemingly oblivious to the intrusion. She dumped her bundle into the basin and turned the tap to full-force stream, blasting the stainless steel surface with a torrent of water.

"You there!" called out the Doctor, trying to be heard over the din.

She didn't respond, but began to wash the brushes under the water, pushing through the bristles with her fingers.

 _Her paint-stained fingers..._

The Doctor cocked his head as he noticed what was happening. Despite the amount of water that was streaming over her hands, they remained marked with paint. Unclean. As though the splatterings of colour on her skin were part of her genetic makeup, physically unable to be removed...

Smiling now, the Doctor confidently approached the woman and grabbed her by the shoulder, wheeling her body around so the two were face to face. She look at him benignly.

"Sorry, were you there long? My hearing's not the best."

"Oh, don't give me that totally-innocent act," he said tiredly. "I know what you are. A Zanrope, right? And I know why that water's having such a hard time getting your hands clean. Not exactly easy when an appearance replicator doesn't know the difference between paint and skin, is it? That thing can't tell where your original human begins and ends. So let's you and I start being honest with each other - where's your ship?"

The woman turned the tap off and dried her hands against her dress. "There's always something," she said derisively. "If it's not dyed hair or makeup, it's painted fingers. Stupid humans."

"Blaming others for your mistakes - nice one. _Where's your ship?_ "

"Well, technically, it's not _my_ ship. I'm just part of the order."

"The order. The... six of you."

"Five. There's five of us. Do you go charging around everywhere with only half the facts?"

 _That confirms it_ , he thought. _Even if it doesn't explain it._

"More or less. I learn as I go." The Doctor shifted his stance. "Tell me about this order of yours. It sounds positively delightful."

"We see. We observe. Then we make a decision."

"Hmm. A little vague, but I'll run with it for now. What is it that you lot have you decided?"

The woman grinned. "You're about to find out."

The Doctor leaned in, grabbing the woman's collar with two angry fists. "And you're testing my patience," he growled. "Today is _not_ the day for cryptic teases. Five impostors, a spaceship, and a machine that you're all pretending doesn't exist - _what are_ _you planning?_ "

"Only what is necessary. For life to flourish elsewhere, death must occur here."

His grip loosened as his blood ran cold. "What...?"

She stared right into the his eyes, making sure she had his full attention.

" _Life. For. Death._ "

The woman brought her hands up to reveal a mobile phone - her communicator, similar to the one the Doctor had earlier taken from the leader. With inhuman speed she thumbed in a button combination, each keypress punctuated by a short electronic trill before being capped with a longer, larger tone - and it was with that tone that a silent shaft of blinding light descended from above, enveloping her entire body. The Doctor could only stand back, eyes squinted, as the light pulsated, throbbing for a few seconds, before drawing narrower and narrower until it compressed in on itself and disappeared altogether, leaving an empty space in its wake.

The woman - the alien - was gone.

And with her, the Doctor's last lead.

" _NO!_ " he cried in frustration, pounding a fist against the aluminium sink, the thump reverberating around the empty space of the room. " _NO!_ "

It couldn't seem more hopeless. No information, no advantages, and the promise of imminent death by a group of beings who constantly seemed in control. The Doctor ran through the situation in his head, twice, three times. He paced the room, but saw no option...

...no other option...

...than the only one that lay before him.

With a heavy breath, the Doctor tapped his earpiece to life. "Amy, are you there?"

A burst of static. Then her familiar voice. "Where else would I be?" she grumbled. "Not that I know where 'there' is."

"Neither do I," the Doctor admitted. "My last lead has teleported, so I'm sorry... I really am... but I've got to do something incredibly stupid." He paused. "Is there a door to your cell?"

"What? Of _course_ there's a door," Amy said in disbelief - and then, pointedly: "A _locked_ door."

"Well, I don't know, some species don't use doors. Ever heard of the Talgeshi? _Wormholes_. No more creaky hinges - think about that next time you're trotting to the loo at night."

"Fantastic," replied Amy, deadpan.

The Doctor detected as much. "Sorry," he mumbled. "But you have a door. That's good. That's a good thing."

"What are you talking about?"

"Listen carefully." His tone became serious, urgent, as he exited the art room and started walking back through the halls of the school building. "It's a big ol' universe out there, so we need to narrow it down. I need to know the exact whereabouts of the ship you're on, and unless you're fluent in Fashtren and can hack into their travel logs with a strand of your own hair and a bucket, you're going to have to do it the old fashioned way. A nearby planet, a star constellation, a meteor belt. Some sort of galactic marker that can tell me where you are."

"I'd love to," said Amy, "but this isn't exactly a room with a view. Bit light on windows."

"I'm getting to that. When I tell you to, I want you to take out your ear piece and put it up against the door of your cell." He reached into his jacket pocket. "I'm going to use the sonic to send a signal that'll open the lock. You can get out, have a look around, and tell me what you find - but be careful."

"Okay..." Nervousness overtook Amy's voice as she grappled with her sudden task.

"I'm heading back to the TARDIS now. There's nothing else here. From this point on, everything's with you, Pond."

"Right, I get it. No pressure."

"Now remember, remove your ear piece. The sonic's signal's meant for locks, not for brains. Unless you want yours to melt."

" _Melt?_ "

"Well, maybe not melt. But you'll get a headache and think everything smells like turnips."

She sighed. "Okay... I'm taking it out now. Do it on three."

"Right." The Doctor removed his earpiece and pressed it to the tip of the sonic screwdriver. He started counting.

"One... two... three."

The sonic's green light flashed, and a high-pitched frequency came from its core. After only a second or two, the Doctor deactivated it, then returned the earpiece back to his ear.

"Did it work?"

"Like magic. The door's open. I can see a row of lights ahead, like a corridor. Opening out into a larger room."

"Are you able to go there without being seen?"

"I think so. I'm heading there now."

"Look for a window or some kind of display. Something that can help give an indication of where you are."

He could hear breathing, shuffling. Movement. "There's no-one here. It's deserted."

"Not likely. They've gone from school to ship - all five of them are up there with you."

"That's what I don't understand," said Amy. "Why are there only five when we you said there were six? Was the TARDIS wrong?"

"She's temperamental, but never wrong. Not with something as basic as a signal scan. Whether those five know it or not, there's a sixth out-of-region lifeform here."

"And that elusive all-powerful machine?"

"They're denying it, but it's here somewhere too. More than likely it's part of their plan - a molecular bomb, or a bio-engineered parasite. Something that's geared towards doing something not very nice to the people of this school. I just wish I knew what."

Amy paused. "Well, at least they've made their whereabouts easy for you."

"What do you mean?"

"I've found a window. I've found one heck of a window. Large room, lots of chairs, control panels, flashing lights doing... flashing things..."

"You're on the bridge? Amy, what can you see out that window? Describe it."

"Earth, Doctor. I'm looking at Earth."

He immediately quickened his pace into a run. "Fantastic! Okay, get back to where you were so you don't-"

 _Ksssssssht!_ A sharp burst of static filled the Doctor's ear. Then, silence. Nothing.

"Amy?" the Doctor ventured.

Silence.

"Amy?" His voice became desperate.

Whatever had happened, their lines of communication seemed to be severed, kicking the Doctor into full gear. Sprinting now, he pushed through a walled double door at full force, racing out into the cloudless sunshine that covered the school yard, bounding across gravel, concrete, grass, until he was finally at the doors of the TARDIS. He fumbled with the lock, hands shaking, and slipped inside the entrance, racing up the ramp and almost colliding with the control pillar at speed. In a frantic blur, he flicked levers, clicked switches, and tapped away at the embedded typewriter, desperately hoping - needing - a result.

"Come on," he whispered to himself. "Come on..."

The TARDIS display came to life, showing Earth at its centre. It slowly zoomed outwards, getting smaller as the Moon crept into view, then-

"Ah-ha!" cried the Doctor. "Gotcha!"

A red dot appeared on the display, blinking to highlight the anomaly. An alien craft, just out of Earth's orbit. A resolution. Answers.

Amy.

The Doctor whirred around the controls, punching in the required coordinates. Twisting this, turning that, pushing these and those in seemingly random order, but eventually culminating his efforts in a grand hefting on a nearby lever that kicked the time rotor into action. Producing its signature cyclic wheeze, the TARDIS was instantly on the move and swiftly rocked the Doctor about the control area, forcing him to hang on to anything within reach. In a whimsier mindset he'd treat the violent movements as part of the ride, but this time, with everything that was at stake, they seemed to get in the way. He battled against them, furiously pushing back at the TARDIS's thrusts as he continued to work the control deck and steer his course to the desired location.

And then, with a sudden thud, he was there.

Barely allowing himself enough time to regain his footing, the Doctor sprinted down the ramp and bolted through the door. He looked around at his new surroundings, the sheer scale of which caused him to slow down in wonder.

A large room, a simply cavernous room of gleaming grey steel, curved upwards in a web of beams, with enough floorspace to rival an industrial warehouse. Dotted throughout were dozens of displays bearing numerous lights and digital readouts, surrounded by foreign-looking chairs at similarly foreign-looking control desks. But it was the enormous floor-to-ceiling window in front of him that captured his attention: a single portal, looking out into the star-filled galaxy and virtually dominated edge to edge with a gigantic sphere of blue and green.

Earth.

The Doctor had to crane his neck to look at its peak, such was its size. He suddenly felt very small, realising how much of a speck he and the TARDIS must look before it. He slowly moved around, footsteps echoing on the hard, smooth floor.

"Enjoying the view?"

A voice cut through his attention. The Doctor looked around behind him, behind the TARDIS, towards the back of the room. Standing there was the source of the voice - the young student, still dressed in his uniform, and flanked by some familiar faces. At his left was the wiry maths teacher, and at his right was the elderly lunch lady. All three stared at him menacingly.

"You!" growled the lunch lady. "You will pay!"

"Oh, go melt yourself," said the Doctor in tired retort. "You're not threatening anybody. A geriatric, a smart-mouth, and a lass who'd fall over in a stiff breeze? Sounds like a bad game of bridge to me."

"Oh, it's a game alright," smiled the boy, the Fashtren. "And we've won. You come here with nothing but your fancy blue box and over-saturated confidence, barely realising how late you are. My brothers and I have made our decision, and in a few moments that planet out there will be free of its cancer."

"Its cancer?"

"Humans," he spat. "Vermin, the lot of them. For too long they've been allowed to spread their filth, showing no regard towards their home or each other. A lost cause, and one that needs to be eradicated - and thanks to you, you've given us the perfect means with which to do so."

A shaft of light materialised beside the lunch lady, its qualities the same as the one the Doctor had seen earlier. Expanding outwards, then inwards, it faded to reveal the art teacher who was fiercely restraining-

"Amy," the Doctor realised.

She was held with a vice-like arm around her neck, struggling to allow enough space to breathe. Her eyes, wide with fear, looked helplessly at the Doctor, begging him for a means of escape, desperate for release. The Fashtren boy chuckled as he reached into his pocket and tossed on the floor Amy's crushed earpiece, scattering fragments and shards as it skidded forth towards the Doctor.

"An ideal specimen," grinned the boy, "Once you remove all extraneous electronic equipment. And we have you to thank for bringing her to us."

"Let her go," the Doctor said through gritted teeth.

"Or what? You'll stand there some more? Please. You have _nothing,_ traveller. But as for us, we also have something extra."

A second column of light appeared, this time beside the maths teacher. Materialising in its wake was the school janitor, but with him stood a second person, restrained in the same manner as Amy. She looked at the Doctor with the same pleading expression, her blue eyes practically screaming in fear.

 _Miranda_.

The Fashtren clasped his hands in appreciation. "That first one was good, but this one? An absolutely _perfect_ specimen. Perfect. You really are quite generous, you know. If it weren't for you, we'd never have found these two." He skipped forth toward the Doctor. "And now... now comes the fun part."

The lunch lady reached inside her cardigan to produce her communicator. She pressed a button on the device, causing a low vibrating hum to resonate inside the room. The Doctor looked up towards its source to see some kind of array descending from the ceiling. It came in two parts: one section resembled a medieval cage, formed of single metal straps bent and shaped to house a single human body. The other presented its polar opposite: an intricate, cannon-shaped build of electronics, lights, wires and moving parts, tapering into a point aimed directly at the cage and looking like some kind of laser or weapon. Both dangled from chained supports, and lowered downwards until they stopped just short of the floor.

The Fashtren stood proud, admiring the mechanical display before him. He turned to the Doctor. "Charming, don't you think? It speaks of its maker. I'll admit, there's a few rough corners, but it gets the job done all the same. Now allow me to save you the time of asking exactly what that job is, because we're on a tight schedule and, to be honest, your idiotic questions bore me. What you see before you is a genetic resonator. It tunes into the base DNA of any living thing and targets every single lifeform that shares it. Just one sample gives us the master key to an entire species. We can control it. We can dominate it. We can end it."

The Doctor looked on, horrified. "No... you can't..."

"Oh, but I can. I need to. Tell me, why would you want filth to thrive? Why would you wish to see it run roughshod throughout a country, a planet, a galaxy? Why favour it over others that are far more worthy, offering so much to the universe? We've seen the nature of this kind - all of us, together. We have decided: this kind will dominate no more. So choose, traveller."

"What...?"

"Weren't you listening? We only need one sample. And since you've spoilt us with two fine specimens that seem to be of some importance to you, perhaps you'd like to decide which one is _more_ important."

The Doctor's eyes widened, the colour drained from his face. "No..."

"Yes!" the Fashtren exclaimed, licking his words through an evil grin. "It is you who will choose the progenitor of the destruction of the human race! It is you who will choose whose death will tumble down below. The end begins with you, traveller! So choose! Choose now!"


	8. Overload

**CHAPTER 8: OVERLOAD**

An impossible decision.

The five beings stood before the Doctor, their unassuming human appearance betraying their alien menace. Held in their clutches, Amy and Miranda could only look on in tension-wrought fear, each mirroring the expression of the other. Together, seven sets of eyes all stared intently at the one man whose next words, whose next actions, would determine the fate of billions.

For all its years, the Doctor's mind was reeling, barely comprehending the request suddenly thrust upon it, yet going a million miles an hour despite it. Two lives, one decision. One demand. To handpick the catalyst of genocide, condemning a planet full of souls to death and living with the weight of knowing precisely what soul sparked it... and who.

"Choose!" barked the Fashtren, cutting through the silence that had blanketed the room.

No, the Doctor told himself. Genocide wasn't going to happen - not now he was here. One way or another, he was going to save the day. That was his thing. That's what he did. With a clever word and a plan to match it, he was going to get himself, Amy and

Miranda out of there, and someday they'd all look back on this and laugh. He'd do that. Somehow.

 _Just buy more time._

"Tell me," said the Doctor, plucking a chipper tone despite the situation. "Can you count?"

The Fashtren was clearly taken aback. "What?"

"I don't think you can." He walked over to the suspended machine and, hands clasped behind his back, peered forward to inspect it more closely. "You built this great big gene-reading thing, you designed those fancy communicator doo-hickeys, but you haven't remembered the humans you've got locked up in stasis? You don't need these two - you never did. You've had five to pick from all along, you daft ninny!"

"These five are our vessels," said the Fashtren, annoyed at the disruption. "It was necessary to keep them as we found them, for the purposes of our infiltration."

"But that's the part I don't understand. Why the big scheme? If mass extinction is your game, why bother with the human costume party? Just for laughs?"

"Enough stalling! Choose now or they both die!"

The Doctor bit his lip. Clearly he was pushing it. He looked at Amy and Miranda - if eyes were mouths, theirs would be screaming. An expression of remorse was all he could offer them in return - after all, they were in this position because of him. He'd been careless, not paid enough attention. He'd let them down. He'd let himself down. His eyes darted between the two, back and forth. Amy, Miranda, Amy, Miranda.

Amy.

He lingered.

He didn't mean to, but out of fear, of concern, he lingered.

Amy.

"You're a stubborn one," said the Fashtren. "As though saying nothing at all will somehow end the inevitable. Ignorant fool." His mouth slowly curled into a sinister grin. "But never fear - it seems your eyes have chosen for you."

He turned to face the group and, with an indicative tilt of his head, motioned towards Amy. The art teacher nodded in response and began to forcibly drag forth her restrained hostage.

"No!" Amy screamed. "Doctor! Help me!"

Kicking, flailing, digging her heels into the floor, she battled against her captor as she was slowly inched towards the hanging metal cage.

"Amy!" shouted the Doctor.

But his voice was not heard, for another was hollering over the top, dominating the soundspace with every decibel.

"LET HER-HER GO!"

The Doctor looked towards its source: Miranda. She was writing like a wild beast in the janitor's arms, trying desperately to twist her body out of his vice-like grasp. Savagely lashing out, releasing immeasurable power behind every kick and punch, she became a seething, driven mass of movement and noise.

"LET HER GO! USE-USE ME!"

Bold, loud, powerful. Her voice bore none of her earlier meekness, her outwardly violent thrashings in stark contrast to the submissive receptionist she once was. This was an entirely new Miranda - one with pure unleashed energy.

Still wrestling for an escape, she grabbed the janitor's forearm in two clawed fists and clamped down on it in a savage bite. Even though sleeved, he howled in pain as teeth sank through skin, drawing blood which immediately began to seep through the grey fabric. It happened in no more than a second: a static-like film flickered around the janitor, his human form wavering to reveal his true self - a porous, pear-shaped green mass, hitching some kind of electronic device on what appeared to be its waist and sporting four bulbish protrusions on its upper half. All four had mouths. All were screaming.

"An Athriel?" cried the Doctor, his voice ringing with disappointment. "No! You're a lovely, blobby species! You're better than this!"

The static withered as the pain subsided. Its human form returned once more, and the janitor released his hold on Miranda in reflex. She quickly darted out of his reach and stood in a pounce-like stance a few paces away, chest panting, like an animal released from its cage readying itself for its next move. She looked around the room through wild eyes.

"Let the-the girl go," she said - nay demanded. "Use me."

The Doctor looked at her, his jaw agape. The Fashtren, similarly stunned, waved the others towards her direction with a hand numbed in surprise. An uneasy shroud swept over the four alien onlookers as they exchanged uncertain glances; the janitor, clutching his arm, showed the most resistance, while the art teacher, still holding Amy in her grip, displayed a look of surprise. Miranda, however, calmed herself and placed both feet together, side by side, her arms hanging from limp shoulders. She closed her eyes. She was offering herself, readying herself. Showing that no conflict would come from her.

Taking the opportunity, they slowly moved in. The art teacher angrily cast Amy aside, pushing her to the cold steel floor. She fell forth, hands outwards, but quickly recovered and scuttled towards the Doctor, who immediately snatched her up in relief. The two hugged tightly as Miranda was surrounded, all four aliens grabbing onto both of her arms and making sure she was well and truly restrained. Still she showed no sign of aggression, and allowed herself to be led to the metal harness.

The Doctor released Amy from his embrace. "Are you alright?"

"Yes. I'm fine." She steadied her breathing and looked over at the mechanical array. "Is that it?" she asked. "Is that the thing the TARDIS detected when we arrived?"

"Can't be," he replied. "What we saw was hugely powerful. Insanely powerful. Super-smart, pretend-it's-your-own-mother-in-law powerful. This thing's just a toaster in comparison. And besides, the signal we found came from Earth. Whatever it is, it's not this."

Amy looked back at Miranda, barely visible among her captors. "What is she doing?"

"I don't know. But she really, really wanted you out of there."

"You've got to save her," she begged. "Please. She saved me."

The front of the cage swung open like a gate and Miranda was positioned inside, multiple hands reaching in to pin her arms to her sides by the wrists, fastened against the bars with bulky locks. Metal knocked against metal as the giant support chains above waved from the movement below. The cage was then closed around Miranda with a secure _clang_ , the device fitting her form perfectly and wholly from head to toe and allowing not an inch for movement. All four stood back, revealing her to be well and truly encased, hanging helplessly in the firing line of the Fashtren's genetic resonator.

"Your guardian angel is a noble soul," barked the Fashtren, "but she's condemned your species to death. Bravery means so little when it's overridden by futility." He raised his voice, directing it to his clan. "Position!"

Two by two, the crew stood at either side of the machine, facing its long rectangular surfaces an arm's width apart from each other. The Fashtren pressed a button on his communicator - gears whirred, parts turned, and four metal flaps opened on the resonator to reveal a stalk of gleaming steel, slowly extending outwards towards each of the party members. They grew further and further, reaching up to align directly to the centre of their foreheads. Upon making contact, two parts of a thin metal strap extended sideways from the end of each stalk, circling around the head of each alien before both ends met and tightened securely. The result had all four physically connected to the resonator via their headgear, standing like soldiers.

Amy looked up at the Doctor with pleading eyes. "Doctor..." she whispered. "Do something..."

He studied her face, tears welling. A low humming noise began to fill the chamber, and he glanced over to see the giant machine now fully active in an array of lights and moving parts. The pointed end began to glow and spark in violent blue, and Miranda, despite offering herself as a willing participant, began to show visible signs of worry.

The Doctor looked back at Amy. Her passion gradually became his. He gritted his teeth and turned to the Fashtren.

"You didn't answer my question!" he shouted. "Why the disguise?"

"Silence!" cried the Fashtren. "My brothers need to concentrate. All are focusing their consciousness on giving the order for genetic destruction. One cannot do it alone - all four need to be perfectly attuned to the resonator simultaneously. A security system, if that helps your pithy brain to understand it."

"But if you lot can just wipe Earth clean whenever you want, why..."

His voice trailed off. His eyes went wide in sudden realisation, all but bulging out of their sockets, while his mouth dropped open in an agape oval. "Oh! Oh!" He pointed an excited finger of exclamation at the Fashtren. "Because you _didn't_ want! Not initially! One supreme mind hand-picking four others for supreme focus, infiltration and observation... but only _now_ deciding to throw the kill switch?" He clapped his hands in glee as the pieces fell into place, riffing through his revelations a mile a minute.

"You didn't come here with the intent to wipe out humanity, just with the means to do so! You posed as them, studied and assessed them, but decided they didn't pass your little ethics test, so now you're expelling them. That's your game, isn't it? Five of the best, smartest, finely-tuned minds of your species, amounting to little more than wannabe authority figures with a god complex. You go trundling around the galaxy deciding whether lifeforms should be left to flourish or wiped out entirely, based on your own perverted standards." His voice dropped into a demanding tone. "What in this universe gives you the right?"

"The greater good!" retorted the Fashtren. "These humans have had more than enough time to establish themselves as a worthy species, and they have failed! We've seen first-hand their hatred, their deception, their lies. We've seen for ourselves how quick they are to anger - they'd sooner turn on their own than work together. What sort of evolved species does that? And what species in a position of power sits back and allows it to continue? My brothers and I, we're not that complacent. We can foresee the pain, the torment that these humans are capable of. What they do to each other on their own planet, they will do to others in the stars. We will take action. We have decided."

"You don't need to do this!" the Doctor urged. "These people are capable of great things - give them time! Give them more than just a schoolyard melting pot of timetables and processed food! Look deeper! There's so much more to see, so much wonder. They're a good people, billions strong, and they have a world of worth in them. I've seen it."

"And we have not! Life must flourish elsewhere. Death must occur here!"

"But just think about the potential you're-"

"A life given for death's birth!"

"Please, listen to me!"

" _Life. For. Death_!"

And in a loud electronic _boom_ , the genetic resonator shot a continuous beam of blue light, laser-like in precision, directly at the abdomen of the caged Miranda. She screamed in pain, writhing as much as her tight confines could allow, while the four minds surrounding the device maintained their focus behind closed eyes. The machine's hum became greater, reverberating throughout the room as the light became more brilliant, growing so intense that the cage's metal bars began to heat in a fierce glow. Amy and the Doctor could only look on in fear, but amid the action, amid the noise and the light, the Doctor spied something: _where the beam met Miranda, smoke and sparks started to emerge_.

An off-kilter noise, irregular and jarring, overtook the room, and the blue light of the resonator slowly turned an angry, dangerous red. The device released a series of electrical explosions as circuits shorted within, and the Fashtren rushed in to investigate.

"What is this?" he cried. And to Miranda: "What _are_ you?"

Even if she was able to hear his question, she didn't answer. The light began to bore a hole into her abdomen from which a shower of sparks burst forth, pungent smoke pluming in the heat. The resonator began to vibrate on its chains - slightly at first, then visibly, then violently.

The Doctor gripped Amy's hand. "Run!"

He led them both into a frantic dash towards the TARDIS, taking shelter in front of its doors and clutching Amy tight against him with both arms. The box was just wide enough to shield them from - _BOOOOOOOOM!_ \- the massive explosion that rippled throughout the entire room, clouds of flame licking around either side and sending a massive shockwave in every direction. The noise was deafening, the smoke blackening, the force impossibly powerful.

Ears ringing, the Doctor maintained his position at the TARDIS, waiting for the air to clear. He looked down at Amy, pressed against his chest, and she slowly pulled back to return his gaze. Neither said a word. Neither was able to. All they could do was cautiously peer around the TARDIS to inspect the carnage, and as the smoke gradually withered away, carnage was exactly what greeted them.

Fragments of fire and metal were strewn from corner to corner, with wreckage from the destroyed genetic resonator littering the floor in all directions. A telltale scorch mark served to indicate ground zero, and as the Doctor took his first tentative steps into the scene of destruction, with Amy following his lead, he could see the charred remains of an alien body. And another. Then another. And parts of one more.

Scattered, but accounted for, their original forms were dotted amongst the mechanical wreckage in grisly instalments, but the fifth - the Fashtren - had somehow escaped the full force of the blast. His body, still appearing in human form, was slumped against a far wall, suggesting the explosion had propelled him back there hard enough to knock him out. The Doctor noticed, but as he went over to investigate, his foot brushed against something that caused him to look down.

A human arm. Slender. Smooth. And flickering with dying sparks at its stump.

Immediately, the Doctor scanned the room, finding similar body parts: a second arm here, a leg there, all exhibiting the same bizarre signs. And then he found something larger - a female torso, the head bent away at an awkward angle.

He rushed over to the body fragment with Amy close behind him. Crouching down, he inspected it more closely. The chest - it was moving. Barely perceptible, and dying with every moment, but it was moving. Amid intermittent sparks, he reached down to gently turn the head into view.

Long, flowing blonde hair. A flawlessly smooth face. Pouty full lips.

Miranda.

And her eyes were looking right back at him.

Like a bolt of lightning, the Doctor reached into the recesses of his mind, a rapid slideshow of moments jumping forth as he realised the signs were there all along...

 _"Shall I see-see if he's available?"_

 _"Who he is is not who I am..."_

 _"I-I don't know where they are. I should know. It's my job to know."_

 _"Who he is is not who I am..."_

 _"Still don't-don't have my own parking space yet."_

 _"Who he is is not who I am..."_

Her glitched manner of speaking. Her immaculately crafted appearance. The fact that she was lying here in pieces, yet _breathing_...

"She's... a robot?" asked Amy in amazement.

The Doctor looked at the exposed workings, ripped open from torn limbs. He stared in amazement.

"Doctor?" ventured Amy. "What is she? That stuff... is that like Professor Bracewell?"

"No..." said the Doctor, fascinated by the sight before him. "Bracewell was machine, pure and simple, but this... well, there's machine in there, but it's almost... organic. It _is_ organic. It grows, it ages. It's living mechanical matter." He reached into his jacket pocket and produced his sonic screwdriver, scanning the remains up and down. He looked at the verdict and shook his head in disbelief. "Processing signals. Each cell is essentially its own CPU, communicating in a body-wide network via the brain core. Self-sufficient, self-powering... it's not like anything I've ever seen."

Amy starred in disbelief, realising what this meant. "The sixth foreign lifeform..."

"...and our elusive super-machine," he finished. "A perfect artificial construction of a biologically sound being. A... biodroid."

A strained gargle sounded as the head of Miranda struggled to move its jaw. The Doctor bent down to listen, facing her as he trained his ear towards her voice.

"Surveillance... unit..." she said through laboured breaths. "Engineered... by-by-by... Shadow... Proclamation... avoid-avoid... detection..."

The Doctor smiled gently. "Oh, that's good. That's very good. Watching the watchers right under their nose. It really _was_ your job to know where those five were - a job you were literally made for. Human in appearance, but not in design. The ultimate black box recorder, protected by the cushioning of a unique and artificial structure."

"Something that obviously took this resonator thing by surprise," Amy noted. "Hard for it to work when it's given something that shouldn't exist - a living machine."

"You sacrificed yourself to save humanity," the Doctor said. "The ultimate bullet in the line of duty." He smiled at her. "Thank you."

Miranda struggled to move her head, tilting it upwards to better reach the Doctor's ear. "They... they... were... wrong..." she choked in heaving bursts. "Human... kind... is... is..."

A pause broke her speech as she struggled to form her final word.

"...won...der...ful."

And then, the longest silence.

The Doctor didn't move - couldn't move. His face reflected the pit of emotion churning through his body, and Amy placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently. He slowly registered her presence and looked around, remembering where he was. Gradually, he stood from his crouch with a deep breath, the two not needing to exchange any words, but saying so much between them.

A distant shuffling noise drifted into their attention, and the Doctor looked around to see strained movement against the back wall. The Fashtren, ebbing back into consciousness, was struggling to sit up. As he slowly reached a pain-wracked arm into his pocket, the Doctor coldly, purposefully, walked over and stood directly above him. Fingers trembling, the Fashtren withdrew his hand to reveal his communicator, but the Doctor deftly removed it from his grasp - his face expressionless.

"You don't learn, do you?"

He didn't respond, but glared at the Doctor through hate-filled eyes, boiling with a furious rage that its broken body could not deliver.

"I gave you a chance," said the Doctor, thumbing his way around the device and pressing buttons in rapid succession. "You remember that."

The Fashtren pushed angry, seething breath through gritted teeth. "Go ahead," he hissed. "Get it over with. Do your worst."

The Doctor aimed the communicator device. "My worst isn't good enough for you."

And then he pressed the final button, long and hard.

A brilliant shaft of white light beamed down from above - the teleportation light, absorbing the Fashtren from head to toe. It pulsed outwards before narrowing into a thin band, closing in on itself until only a sliver remained... and then expanded outwards just as quickly. It narrowed, then expanded, then narrowed again, over and over, endlessly repeating the cycle.

Satisfied with the result, the Doctor threw away the communicator, sending it skidding across the debris-strewn metal floor. "A recursive teleport," he said to Amy, sensing her confusion and anticipating her question. "Beaming into and out of the same coordinates simultaneously. Like a loop of paper in a fax machine. He'll stay like that until the Shadow Proclamation deactivates it - and since their precious surveillance unit has been taken off the grid, I imagine they'll be here any minute to retrieve what's left for their investigation."

Amy could only stare, processing as much of the situation as she could before the Doctor turned to her with the beginnings of a smile.

"Come on," he said. "We've got five people needing a lift home."

* * *

Back on Earth, the TARDIS door opened into a sunny school yard. Slowly, and with much confusion, a waif-like maths teacher stumbled out, blinking in the light as she set foot onto lush, green lawn. She was followed by an equally confused janitor, a uniform-clad schoolboy, a kindly lunch lady, and an eccentric-looking art teacher. Like lost lambs, they cautiously wandered forth, unsure of what had just happened, what they had just witnessed.

Poking his head out from within, the Doctor called after them. "Amazing how the right wallpaper can really bring space to a small room!" he said cheerfully. "Now off you go! Back to class, or lunch, or whatever it is you've got on. And don't worry, a lot of people experience shared dreams. Very common - like that one about going to school with no clothes on. Don't worry, you're safe there! Nice dress!"

He watched them for a moment longer before shutting the door of the TARDIS and skittering up the ramp to the console, greeting Amy who was lounging casually across the padded chair nearby.

"You think they bought it?" he asked, furrowing his brow.

She swung her legs out and hoisted herself to her feet. "I wouldn't have."

"And I hope you never do," beamed the Doctor.

He skipped around the control deck, energetically pushing buttons and twisting dials, with Amy gliding alongside him.

"You know, I really thought the headmaster was one of them," she said over his movements. "No human's that mad all the time."

"The headmaster? Nah, he was just a jerk. Some people are. But then some people are amazing. And some not-people are also amazing, in their own unique ways." He stopped mid-action and stared ahead distantly, losing himself in his own musings. "Such gifted power. Such focus. Such ambition. All of it totally misguided. The five of them, the best of their kind..."

"Six," Amy corrected. "Six of the best. Miranda counts, too.

"Yes," the Doctor agreed. "She does. Bold, noble, selfless... she was truly special. Just like someone else I know."

He turned to Amy and looked at her square on, eyes locked to hers. "I was reckless. I missed what I should have seen, and I put you in danger because of it. I'm sorry."

She matched his gaze. "Don't apologise," she said firmly. "Don't you ever apologise. You being reckless is what keeps both of us alive. It's what spurs you to find a solution."

"But I didn't _have_ a solution. Not this time. If Miranda hadn't have been who she was, or we'd never met her at all, things could have ended quite differently."

"Well, you did say the Shadow Proclamation likes to keep a close eye on interstellar starhoppers. Turns out they had been. You're nine hundred years old - you know more than you give yourself credit for."

He shook his head, not allowing himself to believe her words. "This... this isn't a Doctor win. This was just dumb luck."

Amy smiled. She reached down and took his hands into hers, holding them tight, rubbing the skin with her thumbs.

"Sometimes that's enough."

 **THE END**


End file.
